No Christmases for Old Men
by The ORIGINAL Corky
Summary: The Newsies put their own spin on the classic “A Christmas Carol” in hopes of having the same success on their own “Ebenezer Scrooge”…Pulitzer. Title has truly nothing to do with the story, but it sounds good and I like it
1. Pulitzer and the First Ghost

**Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Newsies, supposedly Disney still has those. Nor do I own Wish, M, Tellie, Jolt, Kidah, Tink, Dewey or Twinks (at least, I don't think I own Twinks...been so long I can't remember if she belonged to anyone else or if I really do hold clame over that scatterbrain!). I do however own Corky and Murdoch so please don't take them from me. **

**Author's Note: Well, here it is...my attempt to write a Holiday story for Dewey's Holiday Story Contest! Hope you all enjoy it and please don't forget to review! Much obliged, to ya's. ^__^**

* * *

The snow crunched under foot, and a stiff, cold north wind blew through the thin worn jackets of the boys and girls on the street, newspapers in hand as they struggled to hawk a bad headline. Garland and wreaths hung from the lamp posts, and every where a person looked, they saw the times of the season. At Milner's Meat Market, a large holiday ham was on display, surrounded by bushels of holly and mistletoe while Anderson's Department Store was all aglow with brightly colored paper garland, displays of wrapped gifts, and tiny candle holders lighting the way inside. Carolers stood on the street corners, their joyous voices filling the air with, "Hark! The Herald angels sing, glory to the new born king!" and "Joy to the World! The Lord has come! Let Earth reveal her king!" It was the most wonderful and magical time of the year for children, a time when anything was possible if you just believed. For grown men like Joseph Pulitzer, however, it was a time to think of how to improve his paper in order to make more of the ever important and empowering dollar.

The sun was shining bright that day, December 24th, 1900, as Joseph Pulitzer made his way to his looming _World_ building. He didn't care that his employees, the newsies, were out on the streets freezing in their thin jackets and worn out shoes; he was quite comfortable in his custom-made leather shoes, freshly pressed clothes, and warm wool long-coat. Stepping out of his carriage, he moved briskly into the well heated lobby of _The World_ building, scowling at the Christmas tree in the corner and the baskets of Poinsettias on the receptionist's desk. Reporters and secretaries were all smiling and laughing as they exchanged small gifts and hand painted Christmas cards. Grumbling to himself and keeping a look of distaste on his face, he moved past the crowd of people and to the lift where a lad of fifteen or so, with bright orange-red hair, stood, smiling and waiting for him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Pulitzer! Beautiful day out, wouldn't ye say? Up to the top floor then? Oh it's such a nice day out today, Mr. Pulitzer. The sun is shining down upon us, the snow is glistening on the trees, and in a few short hours all the wee little ones will be tucked away in their beds waiting to see what the jolly old St. Nick will bring them," Joshua said, his whole face lighting up with excitement as he spoke. A little dimple appeared on each cheek as he smiled, his green eyes sparkling with unending joy.

Pulitzer glowered at Joshua as he entered the lift before him and turned to face the door again. He simply could not fathom how that boy could be so cheery. Surely the lad had nothing to be overly excited about that time of year? He was an orphan, granted to work as a doorman only as a favor to the head of the orphanage. He had no family, no siblings, and no place to call home. So what right had he for being so joyous? His lanky arms and legs had even begun to protrude from the ends of his red and gold uniform, and Pulitzer could tell by the way the boy was walking that his shoes had begun to pinch something horrible on his cramped toes.

The Irish boy nodded at his employer's silence as he stepped in behind Mr. Pulitzer, and pressed the button to send them up to where his grand office sat overlooking the city. As the doors closed, Joshua continued to talk, speaking about his Christmases back in Ireland with parents and siblings. He rattled on about the red candles they'd place in their windows, the seed cake his mother would make with care for everyone in their family, along with the three puddings they'd eat on Christmas, New Year's Day, and on the Twelfth Night. He told Mr. Pulitzer rather quickly about St. Stephen's Day (the day after Christmas) in which the townsfolk would meet up for games and meetings followed by the Wren Boys Procession in which all the boys would walk down the streets with a fake wren attached to a pole, singing and playing instruments asking for money to help feed the "starving wren". Joshua chuckled a little when he told of how instead of milk and cookies like some of the kids at the orphanage wanted to leave, they would leave mince pies and a pint of Guinness.

"Papa always said 'nothin' warms a man better than a pint of Guinness,' which must have been true, because wouldn't ye know it? Every Christmas morning we'd wake up and find it gone! Well, here we are, sir. Don't work too late, Mr. Pulitzer, sir. Santa knows when ye're awake. Be a shame for him to pass ye over just because ye were still working. Nollaig Shona Duit, Mr. Pulitzer," he said, wishing his employer a Merry Christmas in his native Irish tongue. The door to the lift closed on the smiling face of the boy just as Joseph turned to level him with a cold glare.

Shaking his head, the older gentleman moved down the hallway towards his office. Ropes of evergreens intertwined with strings of blood red cranberries and large red, purple, and gold bows decorated the oak paneling walls on either side of him, and filled his head with the tangy scent of the outdoors and sap. Whoever had hung those sticky branches had better pray they could remove the goop before it stained. Moving to the end of the hall, he paused as he saw a tall, lean, balding man standing outside his door, humming merrily to himself as he placed a large wreath decorated with bows, cranberries, popped corn, pine cones, and little flowers on the door. Squaring his shoulders, Joseph Pulitzer approached the man.

"Jonathon! What is that thing?" He boomed, nearly scaring the poor man out of his skin. Spinning around, his fingers wrapped securely around the holiday decoration, the skittish man stammered and sputtered in an attempt to answer before closing his mouth and taking a deep breath to calm his nerves.

"It's…it's a wreath, sir. A merchant from the street brought it up for you. She wanted you to have it as a Christmas present, and to tell you 'may God bless you on this wonderful holiday,'" he finally answered in his prim and proper way, his voice hinting at the slight lingering British accent.

"Heh…Christmas? Pah. Get rid of it," Pulitzer answered, waving a hand of dismissal as he turned and opened his office door. Walking into his office and removing his long-coat and hat, he turned to find Jonathon still standing in the doorway holding the accursed wreath. Splaying his hands out towards his secretary and hunching his shoulders slightly, he looked at the man in expectation.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Go! While you're at it, find something useful to do. I'm not paying you nearly enough to just be standing around like a common bum," Joseph said, voice low and aggravated as he moved for his desk. Looking out his window, he glowered out at the city below, so cheerful and joyous, the tiny buildings buzzing with holiday festivities.

"What shall I do, sir?" Jonathon questioned hesitantly. His look was a mixture of confusion and anticipation that, along with his pencil thin mustache, caused him to look much like a timid mouse waiting for the cat to leave so it could search out its cheese in peace.

"You have a brain, figure something out! Find one of those blasted newsies and have them shovel the walk outside the building, it is disgusting looking. Offer them a dime," he answered, still looking out over the city and watching as the children below finished selling the morning edition and were throwing balls of snow at each other as they made their way back to the distribution center to pick up the afternoon edition. Their squeals of delight and carefree laughter drifted up from the street and hung in the air around Mr. Pulitzer's head like the pesky mosquitoes of summer.

He heard the scuffle of shoes on the floor, and glanced over his shoulder to see Jonathon turning and hurrying down the hallway, wreath still in hands. He moved quickly to find some place to dispose of it and hopefully to find a newsboy or newsgirl in need of a spare dime and willing to shovel the walkway in front of their building. Jonathon hoped, though, that whatever newsie he did ask didn't decide to have their friends help in pelting him with soggy snowballs for even suggesting that they'd do his employer that kind of favor.

Sitting down at his desk to look over the copy of both the morning and afternoon editions he'd been given, Pulitzer lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

"Christmas…pah."

* * *

Racetrack Higgins looked at himself in the mirror and made a face. How did he get suckered into this particular scheme? Nothing was going to change Pulitzer, especially not a bunch of orphans and their friends. Turning to face the others, he glared at each of them as they did their best not to laugh.

"Ey! I don't gotta do this, ya know? I still don't see why da kid can't do it!" he exclaimed, pointing to Les Jacobs perched on Skittery's bunk, hand clamped over his mouth to keep his laughter contained.

Turning back to look in the mirror once more, Race cringed in pain and embarrassment. His dark curly brown hair had been combed and parted in such a way that gave him a rather deceiving look of innocence and childish youth. The girls had gotten together to lighten the dark circles under his eyes and did their best to make him look much younger than he really was. He was, after all, the ghost of Christmas Past! They even went so far as to dress him in a bright white button up shirt, one of Les's school ties, and a pair of trousers that buckled just below the knees much like the ones Snipeshooter wore. To Racetrack, it seemed all they managed to do was make him look like a rotten, stuck up, scabber.

Corky smiled as she approached Race and placed her hand on his shoulder, looking at him through the mirror and chuckling.

"Aw but Racey, ya look so pretty! 'Sides…Mrs. Jacobs wouldn't allow us ta take Les up the fire escapes that high. 'Fraid he might fall an' break his neck or something. Plus, we need someone convincin' like you." Corky teased, kissing the side of her boyfriend's head before patting his shoulder and moving off to check on how Dave and Jack's costumes were going.

"Yeah…well…dis bettah work!" he grumbled, reaching into his trousers pocket to pull out his cigar. Chomping on its end, he headed for the steps. Checking his pocket watch, he felt his stomach tie up in knots as he turned to look out the window over the darkening streets. Something told him that Pulitzer wasn't enough like that "Scrooge" character to fall for their act.

"Time to go Race," Bryan Denton said as he stepped up beside the teen and placed a hand on his shoulder. Gulping and placing his unlit cigar back into his pocket, Race looked to one of the only adult friends the teens had and nodded. Following Denton and his pal Skittery down the stairs, Race shivered at the cold air that met them at the bottom.

"Ey…how come I don't get a jacket? It's freezin' out 'ere! I'm liable ta catch my death of cold! I'm Italian…we don't fare well in the cold," he said his teeth chattering as he wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to stay warm.

"Cuz…you're a ghost now…'member? Ghosts don't get cold," Skittery answered, smirking slightly as he buttoned his own coat and thumped his ever present walking stick down on the snow covered pavement.

"How do you know ghosts don't get cold? You ever met or tawked ta one before?" Race chattered, his fingers and lips turning blue as they stomped through the snow and moved quickly for the back part of _The World _building where the fire escapes were located.

"No…but e'erybody knows ghosts don't get cold."

"I bet Cowboy and Dave get jackets," Race muttered, his face contorted in aggravation and annoyance.

Stepping into the narrow back alley, the trio paused to stare up at the building and all the ladders and stairs Race was going to have to climb before reaching the top level. Once he reached the roof, he would carefully have to run across it in order to reach the dome in which Pulitzer's office was located.

Gulping and tugging at the tie that was suddenly choking the life out of him, Race looked to the others and raised an eyebrow. "I suppose now wouldn't be a good time ta mention the fact dat I'm scared ta death of heights, would it?"

Denton offered a small smile as he patted the teen's shoulder and ushered him towards the first ladder.

"You'll be fine, Race. Just don't look down. Now remember the plan, be back out front there by nine o'clock, that gives you roughly an hour to do your part. Dutchy will be waiting in the side alley for you with a jacket," he said as he moved to one side of Race while Skittery moved to stand on his other side.

"Think you can handle all that, Race?" Skitts teased, a small, playful smirk on his face as he linked his fingers together and bent down to give his friend a boost up. Race made a face at Skittery as he placed his hands on both his and Denton's shoulders before carefully placing a foot into each man's hands.

"All I gotta say is, if I die while tryin' ta do _any_ of dis…I'm comin' back as a real ghost to haunt all of ya's! Lift me up," he answered as Denton and Skittery carefully began to lift him up to grasp the bars and pull himself onto the ladder completely.

Once he'd made it safely to the first landing, he looked over the railing and felt his stomach lurch as he realized the only place left for him to go was up. Knuckles turning white as he grasped the cold, snow covered bar, he looked to his friends, their features blurred by the dim light of the ally.

"You'll be fine, Racetrack. Remember, just don't look down and take it slow across the roof. Be back here by nine. I have to go make sure everything is still good on my end of this plan. Good luck," Denton called, smacking Skittery's shoulder as he turned and moved off down the ally, disappearing into the darkness.

"Go on, what are you waitin' for, Race? You're burnin' daylight," Skittery said as he waved for his friend to get a move on.

"In case ya haven't noticed, daylight's already been burnt out," Race grumbled, turning to start his long trek up the twisting, turning steps. At least the north wind didn't bite nearly as bad back there as it did on the street. Focusing all his brain power at the task at hand, Racetrack decided the best way to keep his mind off of how high up he was climbing was to recite the names of the different horses that ran both in the past and present at Sheepshead along with their statistics and odds.

The cold air stung at his lungs as he panted and climbed. Who knew there were so many steps to get to the roof of a six-story building? Finally pulling himself up and over the ledge, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the dark sky above. Glancing at his pocket watch once again, he silently cursed to himself as he realized he was quickly running out of time. Pushing himself back up onto his feet and dusting the cold snow off his clothes, Race turned to look at the looming dome before him.

"Oh you have gotta be kiddin' me…," he said to himself as he saw the only way up to one of the large, floor to ceiling windows was to literally climb up the side of the dome and pray to God that one of them was still unlocked.

Grumbling to himself and vowing to break every finger on Jack Kelly's hands once he got back to the lodging house, Racetrack carefully found finger and foot holds big enough for him to pull himself up with and begin trying at the windows. He still didn't know why he was the only one who was going to have to be climbing up into the office. Why couldn't he just use the lift like everyone else? Well, he supposed he knew why he couldn't use the lift -- having a serious case of claustrophobia might have had something to do with their decision.

His fingers numbed to the bone, he growled angry as he pushed hard against one of the windows. Out of the four he had tried already, none had moved and inch. The last thing he wanted to do was circle all the way around to the front, climb onto Pulitzer's balcony and rap at his doors until he was allowed in. His eyes going wide with surprise, he yelped out as the window he'd been shoving against lurched open and sent him tumbling to the floor with a thud, a stringy mixture of Italian and Gaelic swear words leaving his mouth. At least his Irish stepfather had been good for something, even if it wasn't the most savory lesson he'd ever taught his stepson.

In his office at the end of the hall, Pulitzer's head shot up when he heard the crashing sounds in a nearby office. Knowing that all his office workers had gone home for the night, he quickly got up from his desk and moved to see what the matter was. Opening every door and looking inside, he stopped cold in his tracks when he looked into one office and saw a young boy struggling to close the window he had come through.

"What are you doing there, boy?" Pulitzer questioned, his angry voice bouncing off the walls of the office. Race rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder.

"Closin' da window, what's it look like I'm doin'?" He grumbled as he finally was able to get the latch to catch and the window to stay closed. Dusting himself off and straightening his shirt, Racetrack turned to face the man all the newsies had grown to despise the year before. Squaring his shoulders, he raised a numb hand to Mr. Pulitzer and frowned.

"Joe Pulitzer…I am da ghost of Christmas Past. I am here ta show you what your Christmases of past were like and ta pinpoint da time you stopped believin' in Christmas," Race said, trying his hardest to sound like he really knew what he was talking about.

Pulitzer looked at Racetrack for a moment, first in confusion, then in anger. Shaking his head, he moved to take the boy by the arm and usher him out the door.

"Don't lie to me, boy. I know who you are. You're one of those newsies that tried to ruin me last summer. Out with you. Leave!" Pulitzer demanded as he reached out to take hold of Race. Jolting out of the way, Racetrack tsk'd and waved his finger at him before reaching into his pocket for his cigar.

"Tsk tsk, Joe…mustn't touch da Ghost," he mumbled around his cigar. Reaching into his pocket again, he pulled out a match and struck it against the doorframe and proceeded to light his cigar, all the while smirking as he saw Pulitzer bristle with anger.

"You are not a ghost; you are one of those obnoxious newsies and I won't have you in my office. Now go."

"How do you know I'm not a ghost? Have ya ever met a ghost before? Huh? Yeah…thought not. Now look, I ain't any happier 'bout any of this than you are…but I got my orders an' my orders are to take you to go see yer Christmases past…or at least one of 'em," Race said, leaning against the doorframe and puffing on his cigar. Pulling his watch out, he looked at it for a moment then back up Pulitzer.

"I ain't got all night, Pulitzer. I got a schedule ta meet too, ya know? You ain't da only one I gotta see tanight, _believe me,_" he couldn't help but smirk and wiggle his eyebrows a little in a suggestive fashion before tucking his pocket watch away again.

"Why should I believe you?" Joseph questioned, his cold eyes burning a hole into the teenage "ghost" before him. He didn't want to admit that he had never met a ghost before; so far all he knew, the boy could be telling the truth. Though given the way he was shivering and the fact that Pulitzer could smell the smoke from the cigar, lead him to believe the boy was in fact lying. Still, Joseph was a newspaper man, he liked digging for the truth, it was the cornerstone to which he built _The World_ on.

Racetrack shrugged as he pushed himself off the doorframe and stuck his hands into his pockets.

"You don't gotta believe nothin', Joe. But jest think about da headlines," he paused to pull the cigar from his mouth before raising his hands to punctuate each word as he made up a good headline, "'Da Undead Alive and Walking among Us dis Holiday Season.' It'd be a killer! Er…so ta speak of course. Now c'mon, grab yer dang jacket…an' be thankful you've got it…an' let's get a move on."

The Ghost of Christmas Past turned on his heels and moved out into the hallway, cigar dangling from his mouth as he hummed old Italian Christmas songs to himself and went to wait by the lift. If there was one thing Race knew besides gambling and selling papes, it was that human's were naturally curious. So even though Pulitzer more than likely knew he was being had, he was probably going to follow his curiosity and follow Race just to see what was going on, and if they really had anything on him like they thought they did.

"Shake a leg, old man! I ain't got all night, ya know!"

Puffing in anger and disbelief, Joseph moved out into the hallway and glared at the teen waiting at the lift for him. A boy that age should know better than to disrespect his elders in such a way! Pulitzer watched as The Ghost jutted his elbow back and hit the button on the wall behind him, calling for the lift to come up and get them. Racetrack raised an eyebrow and waved off towards the empty office where Pulitzer's coat and hat still hung on the hooks.

"If ya don't get yer jacket an' hat…yer gonna get pretty cold out there."

He should have objected, told the boy to go on his way and leave him alone in peace. He didn't have time for such foolishness; he was a grown man with a business to tend to. Still, there was a voice inside his head telling him to get his coat and follow the boy. Torn between his common sense—which he prided himself on thinking he had plenty of—and his inborn curiosity, Pulitzer stood in the hall debating on what to do. Sighing, the fifty-three year old man, his eye sight and health failing, gave into the little voice and moved to fetch his coat and hat before following Race into the waiting lift. Joshua had already gone home for the night which left just the two of them to try and figure out what buttons to push in order for it to work.

"If you claim to be a ghost of Christmas Past, then we shouldn't have to use the lift," Joseph grumbled, his arms crossed over his chest. Right eye narrowed and twitching, Race reached over and smacked his palm against the round knob. Still glaring at Pulitzer, he listened as the doors closed and the gears over head began to whirl and grind.

"Why's e'erybody think dey know so much 'bout ghosts? Was dere some big headline I missed dat told all of da ghostly secrets or somethin'? I'm a ghost…not a stinkin' magician," he answered, lowering his voice as he continued to mutter to himself, his head and shoulder jerking slightly.

"No good, rotten muttonheads. Think dey know sooo much 'bout ghosts, if dey know so much 'bout 'em then dey shoulda done this demselves. Nooo…had ta make li'l ol' me do it for 'em."

"What are you mumbling about now, boy?" Joseph asked in aggravation.

"Nothin'…just…ghost stuff, you wouldn't understand," Race answered, shaking his head as the doors opened allowing them exit into the main lobby. It was dark and deserted, with only the lights from the street casting their shadows across the floor as they moved for the large gold doors. Race had to admit, the place gave him the creeps, especially being alone with Pulitzer. Pushing the grand doors open, The Ghost and his charge stepped out onto the empty street, pausing only when Race's shoes slid out from under him on the thin layer of ice that had formed on the concrete.

"Jesus, Joseph, an' Mary, nothin' is worth this kind of abuse! I'm gonna kill Kelly when I see 'im next!" Race exclaimed softly to himself as he landed flat on his back, a dull pain throbbing in his head, and a nerve in his backside sending urgent S.O.S signals to his heart. Fighting back the urge to whimper, he carefully stood back up and gulped hard.

"You…should really consider puttin' somethin' down out 'ere. Someone's liable ta get hurt…on dat ice." He said between clenches of pain. Shaking his head, Race looked back to Pulitzer and swore he almost saw a small smile on the man's face. _Only Pulitzer would think it funny ta see a kid fall on his butt._

Joseph blinked in the dim light of the street at the lad before him. He had to give him credit for trying, he supposed. A lesser man would have given up on him already and left him in peace, but not this boy. He seemed determined to get his job done, no matter what it cost. It was that spunk and drive that made Pulitzer see just the faintest glimpse of himself in the teen. Buttoning his coat and readjusting his hat, Joseph waited for what was to happen next.

"I suppose then, that ghosts are unable to fly also, is that so?" He questioned as Race started to move out onto the street.

"Look, when you die an' become a ghost, you can find out all da tricks of da trade yerself. Right now though," Race paused and turned back to face Pulitzer. Reaching out, he took hold of the man's coat sleeve gently. "Close yer eyes, Joe, an' follow me to yer past."


	2. A Hungary Past and the Second Ghost

Racetrack led the way down the streets of Manhattan, every once in awhile answering a question or two that Pulitzer happened to ask. Race certainly hoped that the others had followed through with their end of the plan and had things ready for when they arrived. It wasn't easy playing a ghost and making sure Pulitzer kept his eyes closed but not trip over anything. Race hated having to lead the grouchy old man around and given the falling temperature, his mood was not improving any. The one thing to bring a smile to Race's face was the thought of entering their first stop and being able to warm himself by the fire.

Moving swiftly through the different neighborhoods, the teenage ghost was glad that the streets were unusually empty save for the one or two drunks asleep in the doorways. Risking a glance at one of them, Race quickly ducked his head and tugged harder on Pulitzer's jacket, urging him on faster. He didn't need a chance encounter with his drunken stepfather right at that moment. Making their way into a predominately Hungarian neighborhood, Racetrack smirked and puffed on his cigar as he stepped up to one of the buildings.

Peeking inside the window, he sniffled loudly and ran his sleeve under his nose before nodding to the man inside. As if on cue, a violin began to play a joyous Christmas medley, followed by the voices of four children and a woman. Taking Pulitzer's jacket sleeve again, Race opened the door and slid into the room, silently closing the door behind them.

"Open yer eyes, Joe, an' look upon your Christmas past," Race tried to sound mystical and ghostly as he waved his hand out in front of him and looked around.

Opening his eyes finally, Pulitzer squinted as he tried to see what was before him. An older looking gentleman sat on a wooden chair next to the fireplace, a bright smile on his face as he moved about in his chair, his fingers dancing across the strings of his violin. A meager tree sat in the corner decorated in pinecones and strings of popped corn, with a dozen or so small gifts placed lovingly beneath it. Sitting on the floor between the tree and the man were four children ranging in heights and ages, smiling brightly and singing a Hungarian Christmas Carol that Pulitzer had not heard in nearly forty years. A beautiful woman with curly red hair was dressed in plain clothes and stood behind the man, a dainty hand resting on his shoulder as her blue eyes danced happily and her alto voice blending wonderfully with the children's.

"What is the meaning of this? Why did you bring me to a stranger's home?" Pulitzer asked, still not understanding the scene before him fully. There was a certain familiarity about it all though that struck at his heartstrings. If the family saw or heard either one of them, they did well not to acknowledge them and continued on about their jolly business.

Racetrack glanced over his shoulder as he moved towards the fireplace, attracted to the heat like a moth to fire. Giving a discreet kick to the smallest boy blocking his path to the warmth, he shrugged and looked back to the fire. "This ain't a stranger's house, Joe. Don't'cha recognize any of it? It's yer house, when you were still a kid back in da old country."

Grumbling a word or two of disagreement under his breath, Joseph paused as he heard the deep voice of the man announce to the children that it was time for them to open the gifts the Baby Jesus and angels had left for them. Though he talked in a language Joseph had not heard or spoken in many years, the grown man knew exactly what had been said just by looking at the faces of the children light up excitedly. The two older children, a boy and a girl, each dove over each other in an attempt to get to their presents first while the two younger ones, both boys, waited patiently for their chance. Pulitzer watched silently as the gifts were divided and placed before each child, all except for the smallest boy.

Race glanced down at the smallest boy and gave a small, knowing smirk before stuffing his now warm and toasty hand into his pockets and moving back to Pulitzer. He could tell the man was lost in memories, slowly turning the scene before him into his own form of reality.

"Do you remember dis Christmas, Joe?"

Joseph nodded, "This was the Szent-este before my sister Catharina was born."

"It _was_? I mean, uh…it _was_. Do you remember what you got that, uh, Christmas?"

Again Joseph nodded silently as he watched the littlest boy with scruffy red hair shake as he coughed and drew his arms tighter around himself, waiting patiently to see what lie in wait under the tree for him. The boy watched as his older siblings each received four gifts and merrily set about playing with all of them. Blinking and squinting, the boy Pulitzer looked at his siblings and then at his parents.

"I didn't receive a gift that year. Mikhail, my oldest brother, told me my gift was that I was still alive and I should be thankful for that much," He answered finally, his voice hinting at the hidden pain within. Race gulped a little as he rubbed the back of his neck. Giving a small cough he shrugged and tucked his hands back into his trouser pockets.

"All I had wanted that year was a pair of glasses so that I could see during my lessons," Joseph said, his jaw clenching as he thought about how hurt he'd been to barely see his siblings get gifts they had 'oohed' and 'ahhed' over in the towns tiny toy store, and to sit there without the one thing he had truly needed and wanted, nearly forgotten by the other five family members.

Racetrack's eyebrows knitted together as he tilted his head, his hand holding his cigar up to his mouth as he looked at Pulitzer in confusion. He thought about Specs, Dutchy, and even his own girlfriend Corky, who had been given a pair of glasses each by the nuns on the street. Perfect strangers had taken the time to fit them and dozens of other orphans with glasses, but yet, Pulitzer's own family hadn't thought enough of him to do the same.

"How come ya didn't get da glasses?" He asked, honestly interested in knowing the answer to such a sensitive subject. A fire erupted in Pulitzer's eyes that told Racetrack he would have been better off not asking that question.

"Because they had spent too much money buying my medicines and tonics in order to keep me alive for another miserable year, that's why!" He boomed. Race jumped slightly and looked nervously at the "family" in front of them, praying to God that they didn't blow their or his cover.

"Uh, right, ok well…I t'ink we've seen enough of this Christmas. Let's uh…let's go, huh? We can swap sob stories on da way back ta da off…uh…present. Close yer eyes again, Joe, an' follow me back ta da present," Race said, quickly looking around at the others before opening the door and, taking hold of Pulitzer's coat sleeve once again, led the way back through the rundown neighborhoods of Manhattan on their way back to _The World_ building.

"Why do I have to close my eyes, boy?! I'm nearly blind as it is! You'd like to see me trip and break my neck, wouldn't you?"

The teen looked skyward as he crossed himself and sighed heavily. He had darn well better be earning some major brownie points with the man upstairs for what he was doing. "Cuz I'm da ghost an' I told ya ta close yer eyes, that's why. Trust me Joe, if I planned on havin' ya trip an' break yer neck, I woulda made soir you'd done it already."

Race coughed and sniffled as he actually stepped closer to the man in hopes of soaking in some of the heat produced from the body. The cold December night air was brutal on the boy's lungs. Leading Pulitzer carefully through the neighborhoods back to the man's office, Race's teeth chattered loudly and his extremities were near frozen blue. Risking another glance at his pocket watch, the would-be-ghost ran a frozen sleeve under his running nose and cursed softly at its roughness. Gads what he'd give for a decent handkerchief.

"A'right, Joe…ya can open yer eyes again," Race said, stretching and contorting his jaw in hopes of stopping his nose from running anymore than it already was. Joseph opened his eyes again and squinted in confusion. They were standing outside of his office, why outside? Why couldn't he go back inside where it was nice and warm?

"What are we doing standing out here, boy?"

"Look, _Joe_…I'm gettin' real tired of bein' called 'boy'. I've gotta name ya know? Not dat you care, t'ough," Racetrack mumbled as he shook his head and tossed the last little bit of his cigar onto the ground by his feet. "We're standin' out 'ere cuz dis is wheah you gotta wait fer da second ghost. Who'll be 'ere when da clock strikes nine. So, jist stand 'ere an' wait, a'right? I gotta go. Take care, Joe…and heed well da warnin's of da othah two ghosts."

Race turned and started off down the deserted street, never once looking over his shoulder or even acknowledging Pulitzer's yells for him to stop and answer him. Getting his arms into a nice warm jacket was the only thing on Racetrack's mind as he turned a corner and nodded to his blond friend with glasses who stood waiting with a jacket in hands.

"Did it work?" Dutchy asked hopefully as he handed Racetrack the jacket.

"I doubt it. C'mon…let's go. My legs are freezin'!"

* * *

Pulitzer stood completely bewildered on the sidewalk outside his office. The way the boy had just seemed to have disappeared into the night chilled him more than the night air. Surely the boy wasn't a ghost as he had claimed to be! It was preposterous! There was no such thing as ghosts. The bells of a distant church droned on their hourly announcement of time

_Jooo---seph, Jooo---seph,_ they seemed to call eerily, their sound crisp and clear. Pulitzer paused for a brief moment, _nine bell tolls_. As the last faint echo faded into the crisp night abyss, Joseph scoffed at his imagination. He was a grown man who had allowed his feeble imagination to get away from him for the slightest of moments; well he was sure not to let it happen again!

"Joseph Pulitzer! Merry Christmas, sir!" A very familiar voice called from behind him. Joseph spun on his heels and squinted at the figure of a taller teenage lad, dressed in his Sunday best, a lantern in one hand while in his other he held the very same Christmas wreath Joseph had demanded be gotten rid of earlier that day. The boy stood by the door of the office, which by all means, confused Pulitzer. He was certain no one had been standing there a moment before when he looked. It was as if the lad had appeared out of nowhere. As the boy stepped closer though, Joseph's eyes widened as he recognized who it was. Pointing a finger at the boy, he scowled angrily.

"You!"

David Jacobs stepped forward, a bright and pleasant smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. He didn't have enough time for all the pleasantries he was suppose to do; he may be an eighteen year old now, but his mother and father still required that he be back home no later than ten-fifteen every night, and given that it was Christmas Eve, he was to be home even sooner than that.

"Merry Christmas, Joseph Pulitzer! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present! Come, follow me so that you might see the joy and comforts of those less fortunate than you this night of wonders!" David exclaimed merrily as he slid the wreath down to his elbow, his now empty hand reaching out to take Pulitzer's arm and –none too gently—tug the man down the dark streets towards one of the many Newsboys Lodging Houses, ignoring his demands and objections all along the way.


	3. Friendship and the Third Ghost

Dave, dressed as the Ghost of Christmas Present, walked briskly down the street towards the Dune Street Lodging House. His fellow newsies and friends stood out on the corners near the lodging house, holding tightly to stacks of newspapers, trying desperately to sell them. Pulitzer thought he recognized some of the boys and girls as the same ones he saw that afternoon hawking headlines. Surely that couldn't be the case though. Those children and teens had to have gone home or back to their places of residence by then. The carolers had long retreated back into their warm homes leaving the air empty and rather depressing; replaced instead with the sniffling, coughing, and crying of half frozen newsies just trying to earn a few extra pennies so that they could buy a bauble of their own for Christmas.

Pulitzer watched with mild interest as they moved past the seemingly oblivious newsies, each sniffling and shivering as their thin and sickly voices called out into the night. The snow had begun to fall again, the large, wet, heavy flakes stuck to their heads and hair. Most of the children didn't even have a decent hat to keep their ears from getting frostbitten. Seeing those kids, their little bodies quickly being engulfed in the heavy snowflakes, made Joseph think back on his time as a child in Hungary when he too had been too poor to afford decent winter clothing. Though he was sure not to let it show, he couldn't help but feel his heart go out to those kids and truly, for once in his life, feel sorry for the poor newsies without homes or families.

David stopped outside the Dune Street Lodging House and smiled up at it. Candles sat flickering in each window, casting their gentle glow out onto the street and beckoning to wary travelers. A single sag of garland hung across the doorway while a small wooden plaque with the word "Noël" sloppily painted across it in red and green paint had been carefully hung on a wire from the door. From the outside, it was clear that the building had seen far better days and was in desperate need of mending. On the street where David and Pulitzer stood, the sounds of laughter, songs, and games could be heard.

"Follow me." David said, starting up the steps for the door. Nodding, Pulitzer carefully made his way up the snow covered steps, ducking his head ever so slightly in silent thanks as David held the door open for him.

The lobby of the lodging house was sparsely decorated with hand drawn cards and pictures on the walls. Small hand knitted stockings hung from the front of the ledger counter, each with a piece of paper attached baring the name of a newsie on it: Murdoch, Sparkles, Cowboy, Kidah, Jolt, Skittery, Wish, Corky, Racetrack, Dutchy, Tink, Blink, Snitch, M, Tellie, Twinks, and Dewey were just some of the names Pulitzer read. How those kids ever came up with their nicknames, Joseph would never know. To his left was the common room where he could make out a small tree that was truly nothing more than a twig with a few sticks coming from it. The few needles that were on it were brown and brittle. The smell of a roasting chicken and corn biscuits drifted from a back room, where the sounds of laughter and song were coming from.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle, jingle bells, jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle bells." A merry little voice sang, clearly only knowing those two words of the song. A small girl with blond hair and blue eyes came dancing out of the backroom, still singing merrily while a horde of teens followed her into the common room.

"Ya jist _had_ ta teach 'er a new song, didn't'cha?" a girl with long black hair asked to a boy a good three inches taller than her. The boy smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

"Sorry Wishie. I really didn't think Twinks would take to it like she did."

"Skittery, this is _Twinks_ we're tawkin' 'bout. She picks up certain t'ings like nobody's business," a second girl stated, moving her glasses up on her nose a little as she shook her head sadly. Skittery shrugged again and wrapped his arm around Wish's waist, pulling her close and kissing her head lightly.

"Sorry," He said simply. Wish frowned and shook her head.

"Ya ain't sorry yet, Skitts. You aren't the one who's gotta share a bunkroom with 'er. We'll nevah get any sleep tanight," Wish answered.

"Oh, Twinks'll go ta sleep. Believe you me, Wish. I don't care if I gotta spike 'er milk with somet'in' in order ta get 'er ta go ta sleep…she _will_ sleep tanight." The second girl threatened as she moved past Dave and Pulitzer without giving them even so much as a glance.

"Corky yer horrible!" another teen laughed, smiling as they moved into the common room also.

David did his best not to full out laugh at the scene before them. Oh how he loved the camaraderie of the lodging house teens. They acted as their own separate family. Most of those who were present that night either had no parents or had runaway, and so they really had no family to ring in the holidays with save for each other. The older ones acted as both older siblings and mother or father figures for the younger ones, making sure they had something to eat that night, washed behind their ears, said their prayers, and were tucked safely into the bunks at lights out.

Pulitzer watched as the group of children gathered in the common room, some opting to sit on the cold hard floor, others extinguishing the candles to sit on the drafty sills; some sat on the tattered couch while others perched themselves on the small table in the middle of the room, a few littler ones even managed to carefully climb their way to the top of a short bookcase to sit. The older teens who had managed to steal the cough away from the six and seven year olds, smiled and laughed as they playfully grabbed the kid's hats and batted their heads with the pieces of fabric before scooping them up and placing them on their laps.

To Dave and Pulitzer's right, an older gentleman with kind eyes and white hair stepped out of the back room holding a large tray carefully in his hands. On the tray were a variety of cups, some small tea cups baring a flowery design on them, others a bit larger with their ceramic handles missing or chips taken out of the edge, each filled with a warm brew of coffee for the older kids and warm milk for the younger ones, a spoonful of sugar mixed into each for an extra special touch. Behind the older gentleman, a much younger boy in his late teens followed, holding yet another tray of cups. Together, the pair moved through the common room dispensing the cups until everyone had received one.

"A toast!" one boy called out, standing up from his place on the window sill. Pulitzer moved further into the common room in hopes of better hearing what the lad had to say. The boy appeared to be about sixteen or so, with a crop of dishwater blond hair, glasses and eyes the color of forget-me-nots. The noise level of the common room diminished and all eyes turned to the lad.

"To Mister Joseph Pulitzer, may the good Lord look down and take pity upon him on this most holy and sacred night. Without his want to rule the free world as the largest newspaper publisher ever, none of us would have the scant money to indulge in this wonderful feast of ours," the boy said, smiling as he raised his cup of coffee up in 'honor' of the newspaper mongrel. A few teens raised their cups also while others simply made rude noises and shook their heads.

"Ta Pulitzer my arse! That bum's prob'ly at his mansion right now, bitchin' cuz his bathwater's turned cold or orderin' for the fatted calf to be taken to be butchered so that he can have it along with his ham and turkey for his Christmas dinner. He'll be sleepin' all nice an' warm under a dozen or more silk an' cotton blankets, visions of newspapers an' dollar signs dancin' in his head while we're all 'ere freezin' in our sleep, visions of increasin' prices an' the bulls chasin' us for stealin' a loaf of bread runnin' through our heads! He can fall asleep warm an' content, knowin' he'll stay that way all through the night an' be able ta wake up the same way when his butler tells him to! Us? We'll fall asleep wonderin' if we'll wake up when the sun peeks through the window, or freeze to death in our sleep," the boy called Skittery said, his voice thick with revulsion towards the man. A chorus of "Here, here's" sprung up throughout the common room while more children lifted their glasses to that toast than they did to the first.

Pulitzer's anger boiled into rage when he heard those words leave Skittery's mouth. How dare those children mock his good fortune! He had once upon a time been just as poor and forgotten as they were, also! Yet with hard work and determination, he had been able to rise to the level of power and status of millionaire that he was at then. Perhaps if they used even half of their energy on something worth while as he had done, they too could emerge from the depth of poverty and make something of themselves. Bristling with anger, Joseph glared at the teen boy before looking back to David who was watching him with a raised eyebrow.

"You don't seem to be very well liked, Mister Pulitzer. Why is that, I wonder?" David asked, looking back out at the common room where his friends continued to banter and rant about their employer.

"Jealousy! Those insolent teens are jealous!" Pulitzer exclaimed, his anger turning his face red as he spoke.

"Are they, Mister Pulitzer? Or are they just as misunderstood by you as you are by them?"

"No, ok, Pulitzer uses twenty dollar bills ta light his cigars with, ok? He does that while we're out freezing our butts off in the winter and dyin' o' heat in the summer just ta make a buck. Soir he lets us sell our unsold papes back now, but for less than what we originally bought 'em for! He's killin' us jist so he can keep on makin' his precious hundreds e'ery day. After all, he don't care if one o' us happens ta die. Jist another street urchin ta be tossed inta Potter's Field, right?"

"Oh now, Bookie that's not true. If one of us dies that means there's one less newsie out on the streets making him money. Of course he cares if we live or die."

"'Ey, c'mon guys, it's Christmas, cut da man some slack huh? For just one day, forget all his faults and be thankful that he has allowed us to sell back all our unsolds. If it weren't for that, how many of us would have been able ta pitch in and help to buy that medicine last winter when the little ones all came down the pox?" the teen who had originally toasted Pulitzer piped up, looking around at everyone solemnly.

"Pft…lotta good it did us, Squints, we still lost Squeaks an' Sleepah. How can ya stand dere an' defend da man who had a hand in yer own bruddah and sistah's death?" Corky questioned from her place on the couch, a little boy with dark curls perched on her knee.

"It's not Pulitzer's fault my brother and sister got called home. Pulitzer will be judged when his time comes, but not by us. And when he is judged, I have faith that the good Lord will give him what he rightly deserves. So, I propose that we all do as the Good Book says and for just this Christmas, 'love thy enemy'. We can all go back to hatin' him once Christmas is over," Squints stated. A small murmur of acceptance moved through the common room as everyone present nodded and looked down at their cups.

"I propose a new toast. To friendship. No matter how rich Pulitzer thinks he is, he's no match to the richness we all have. No man could be richer than a man with true friendship in his life," A new boy said, sitting on the arm of the couch next to Corky. Raising his cup, he smiled at everyone and nodded. "To friends, new and old, and to those who are waiting in a much better place for da day when we all can be together again,"

"I'll drink ta dat, Doc."

"Finally, somet'ing worthy ta drink to, Murdoch!"

"I'se not a man! Corky! Is I a man? What's a man?"

David smiled at Twinks as she bounced in place, looking up at her friends in mild confusion. When no one answered her, she simply shrugged her shoulders and continued to sing her merry little song. Looking to Pulitzer as the rest of the teens groaned and rolled their eyes before joining in, singing the right words against Twinks version, David took hold of Pulitzer's jacket once more and started for the door.

"Come, Joseph, our time here has ended."

* * *

Pulitzer stood outside his office building once again, silently mulling over everything he had heard at the Dune Street Lodging House. Could it be that those street rats were right and that the richest man alive was the man who had true friendship in his life? The more Pulitzer stood on the street alone thinking about that, the more he began to realize how right those teens were. Of course Pulitzer had people surrounding him at all times, but never had he really had anyone to call his 'friend' and to offer him an honest and sincere friendship. All the money in the world could not buy the joy and love that a friend could willing offer free of charge.

Moments before, his second ghost had vanished into the night just as the first had, warning of a third and final ghost who would approach him when the bell tolled ten. Though common knowledge told Pulitzer everything that was happening was still just a façade, an overpowering wave of uncertainty towards the whole matter made him believe he truly was being shown the different Christmases of his life so far. One thought haunted him though as he stood listening to the last strikes of the bells, if he had visited the past and the present, that mean the only place left to go was…

"Heya Joe." A gruff voice said from the shadows to his left. Spinning his head around to look, Joseph watched as a lone figure moved through the shadows, the smoke of a cigarette drifting out into the yellow circles of light from the street lamps.

"What? Who's there? What do you want?" he questioned anxiously, doing his best to see the face of the third spirit.

"I t'ink you know what I want, Joe. Da question is, what do _you_ want? Don't go answerin' me yet, t'ink about it for awhile…gimme yer answer when we're done," the voice answered still staying mostly hidden within the shadows. Pulitzer didn't need to see this spirits face to know who it was under the hat and shadows though. He could tell just by the cold way this boy spoke to him that it was none other than the strike leader himself, Jack "Cowboy" Kelly.

Dressed in his usual dark grey garb, his black cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyes, Jack flicked the remainder of his cigarette to the ground before turning and motioning for Pulitzer to follow. Jack wasn't about to take hold of the man who had threatened his and his friends well being, placed him in jail, and allowed his hired henchmen to beat up upon a cripple. Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the old man was still following behind him; Jack gave a slight nod to his friends hiding in a dark alley sending the last part of their plan into motion.


	4. A Bleak Future

"I say, 'good riddance to bad rubbish'! Dat's what I say!"

"Oh come now, ye can' mean dat? Da poor man dropped dead as can be. Not a soul around 'im dey say."

"Paah…"

Joseph listened carefully to the two 'old hags' they passed on the street and couldn't help but wonder who they were speaking of. Whoever it was, it didn't seem as if they cared much for him at the time. The third spirit before him wasn't doing much in the way of helping him to understand what he was seeing or hearing.

The streets were strangely busy in the rundown section of the city the pair had entered, as if this little neighborhood was in a world all its own and didn't realize how late at night it was becoming. Everywhere Pulitzer looked, he saw neglected homes and businesses, grime from nearby factories covering their windows forbidding any light from entering or exiting. People rushed to and fro, never once casting a curious glance to the well dressed man and his dark companion. Ratty looking decorations were scattered and sparse in this area; as if no one cared the holidays had arrived.

"To da death o' da tyrant! May he rot in 'is grave wit' da rest o' da worms an' snakes!"

"Here, here!"

A group of bums toasted to each other around their makeshift camp fire in an alley. Their faces illuminated dimly by the fire, and Pulitzer thought for a moment that he recognized them as more of his newsies, though they appeared to be older than he thought they were.

"Who is it that everyone seems so glad to be rid of?" Pulitzer finally asked, following Jack as he turned a corner to his right. Jack didn't answer though. He just kept walking, his hands in his pockets to keep his fingers from freezing. The sounds of newsies on a corner nearly answered Pulitzer's question for him.

"Extry! Extry! Tyrant Newspaper Tycoon Drops Dead in Office! Read all about it!"

"Corps o' Dead Newspaper Big Wig Found Rottin' in his Office!"

Curiosity getting the best of him, Joseph lagged behind Jack some in order to try and sneak a peek at the newspaper. He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of the tyrant being William Randolph Hearst at least that would be one less paper he would have to worry about competing against. Looking down at the stack of newspapers on the ground next to one of the young newsies, Joseph gasped in surprise when he saw his picture on the front page under the headline. Stumbling backwards in shock, he looked to where Jack stood, head down, leaning against a lamp post, a new cigarette in his mouth while he idly twirled his lasso in front of him. Jack stole a glance up as Pulitzer stormed towards him. Wrapping his rope up, he slung it over his shoulder before turning a corner to his right once more, taking them back towards _The World_ building.

Joseph called and demanded for Jack to stop walking and speak to him; he demanded an explanation! Jack kept walking, a secret smile hidden on his face as he picked his pace up some, forcing Pulitzer to do the same if he wanted answers. By the time they had gotten a block from the office building, Jack had all but broken into a full out sprint. He could hear Pulitzer's wheezing and pleas of mercy behind him. Their plan could just be working on the man after all, he thought to himself as he round one last corner. Sliding to a stop outside building, he ducked into the shadows of the grand pillars and waited. As he saw Joe emerge from the alley, he motioned to Denton and the little newsie known as Jolt.

"Yeah…I 'eard 'bout it. What's it too ya?" Jolt asked, his tiny arms folded over his chest as he looked up at the much taller reporter in front of him.

"Do you have any thoughts on the matter? He was your employer, after all. Doesn't it bother you that Mr. Pulitzer is dead?" Denton looked up from his notepad and down to the eight-year-old.

"Pfft! Did it bother Pulitzer dat me friends died last winter of pneumonia? Jacky-boy didn' even make it ta New Years. Dey found 'im frozen ta death in an alley. An' poor ol' Crutchy, he coughed himself ta death! An' fer what? So Pulitzer could make anuddah buck off us?"

Pulitzer's eyes widened slightly as he heard Jolt tell of Jack and Crutchy's 'deaths'. Looking to where Jack still stood, leaning in the shadows, he couldn't help but gulp. His imagination running rampant, he struggled to breathe as he actually started to believe the ghosts were truly visiting him. But why? Why had they chosen that specific moment in his life to come and try to change him?

"I remember about Jack and Crutchy, they were good friends," Denton said softly, glancing back down at his notepad, "How do you mean Pulitzer was trying to make another buck off of you?"

"He went an' jacked up da prices on us 'gain! Da day aftah Christmas! Can you believe dat?! Whad made 'im t'ink we could afford anuddah jack up like dat?" Jolt lifted his foot from the ground and showed Denton the bottom of his shoe, "Look it dis! I ain't had a new pair o' shoes in years! I gotta patch dese wit folded up newspapers! We all gotta wear layers o' shirts instead o' jackets cuz most o' us don't got da money fer a new jacket."

Joseph saw the sad state the boy's shoes were in and noticed how the child only had on a few thin layers of shirts that were nearly two sizes too big on him. Was it true that his increase of the price to the newsies had caused them lack in the things every living person deserved: decent coats and shoes in the winter, medicine when they were sick, and someplace warm and dry to sleep? Truly the more Joseph Pulitzer thought about it, the more he realized just how much in life he took for granted that those children could only dream of one day having.

"Thank you, Jolt. Is there anything else you'd like to add before I go type this up?" Denton asked, tilting his head and waiting for a reply from the seemingly loud-mouthed child.

"Yeah…'free at last, free at last. Lord A'mighty we're free at last!' An' ya can quote me on dat, Denton." Jolt answered, nodding his head sharply as he picked up his stack of papers and tucked them back under his little arm. Denton chuckled as he nodded and jotted down what the child had said before patting his shoulder and heading back off towards his apartment to type his story up.

"EXTRA! EXTRA! _WORLD_ ENDS FER JOSEPH PULITZER!!" Jolt exclaimed, his hand shooting up into the air as he waved a copy of a fake newspaper around, shuffling off through the snow. Joseph watched as the boy moved off into the darkness and turned to approach Jack.

"I demand an explanation!"

"What's dere ta explain, Joe? Yer dead, an' nobody cares. Well…least not da newsies. Dere's some people who care. People like da mayor, chief o' police, all yer bums workin' in da office who ain't gonna get dere big holiday bonus checks…all da people you'd give big pay off's to in order fer dem ta look da othah way while you rob da poor ta pay yer own pockets. Dey care fer a day or two, da Journal an' da Sun run a nice big obituary on ya…an' den da next day those pages are bein' used ta wrap fish in da fish market. You get forgotten, Joe…just like da rest of us," Jack answered as he pushed himself off the pillar and stepped closer to Pulitzer. "How's it feel knownin' dat in da end, e'erythin' you worked so hard for didn' mean beans ta anybody else? Dat when it all comes right down to it, yer no more important to da world den us street rats?"

"Don't…don't you say that to me, boy. I am more important!" Pulitzer exclaimed, the heels of his hands pressed to his temples as he shook his head in protest.

"No ya ain't, Joe! An' dat's what ticks you off most! Knownin' dat even t'ough you live like a king now, in da end you wind up in da ground with da rest o' us! Buried an' forgotten!"

"You shut up, right now! I won't hear anymore of this nonsense from you!"

"You wanna be remembered in dis city, Joe? You want da world ta remember Joseph Pulitzer, newspaper tycoon, once yer gone?! Den ya gotta start wit' da little people! Us newsies are da ones who're gonna be callin' out da headlines when ya die, Joe. You heard fer yerself what some of 'em are gonna be yellin'. It ain't too late ta change dat, Joe." Jack said, slowly moving back into the shadows, carefully planning his escape. He couldn't help but smirk when he saw Pulitzer close his eyes and continue his demands for Jack to stop talking. Turning and silently darting off down the dark alley, Jack chuckled to himself as he ran all the way back to the lodging house.

Joseph Pulitzer covered his ears with the heels of his hands as he shook his head, words of protest and denial still spouting from his mouth long after Jack had disappeared into the night. Opening his eyes finally when he realized he no longer heard the teen's voice, Joseph looked around the empty streets in mild confusion. Everything appeared to be as it was before, not a single trace of any ghosts or newsies to be found.

Jack's parting words echoed through Pulitzer's mind, refusing to release him from their grasp until their job of driving him mad was completed. Shaking his head as he hurried into his office building once more, Joseph grumbled to himself repeating over and over what Jack had said. As he approached the receptionist's desk, he paused and looked to the phone. _Ya gotta start wit' da little people…it ain't too late ta change…_ Moving swiftly around the side of the grand desk, Joseph Pulitzer picked up the phone and waited for the operator on the other end to answer.

"This is Joseph Pulitzer, get me Martin Anderson of Riverdale Heights…I don't give a blazes what time it is! This is an important business matter that cannot wait! Well keep trying until he does answer, then!"

* * *

Jack walked through the front door of the Dune Street Lodging House and quickly shook the snow off his hat and jacket before looking up at the bustling lower level. Medda sat on the tattered sofa in the common room, still dressed in her "Hungarian peasant" dress and hair swept up into a sloppy bun, while the man who had posed as Pulitzer's father sat on a chair near the tree once again playing his violin. The small newsies that played the part of the young Pulitzer family laughed and chased each other through the lobby. Corky, her brother Murdoch, and beloved Racetrack Higgins—back to his normal color and body temperature—gathered by the ledger counter, sneakily placing small treats into each of the stockings while Wish and her boyfriend Skittery sat on the stairs reading "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" to the little ones who had refused to go to bed until Jack returned and so had gathered on the floor in front of them. Denton stood near the back room door, sipping a cup of hot coffee and explaining to David how he had managed to convince the press manager at The Sun to print up a small amount of the fake papers for the newsies to use announcing Pulitzer's 'death'.

It may not have been the Ritz, or a fancy mansion like Pulitzer had, but that drafty old lodging house—in desperate need of maintenance—never felt more like home than it did that Christmas Eve with all his friends and adopted family present. Closing the door and tossing his jacket onto the counter, he smiled at those who noticed him.

"'Ey! Jack's back! Did it work? How'd we do, Cowboy?" A flood of voices questioned as every ran to gather around him. Cowboy did his best to wave them off and move for the table in the common room that held a fresh tray of tea cups as he shrugged.

"How'm I s'pose ta know? Last I saw of Pulitzer, he was swearin' up a storm an' callin' me a liar." Jack answered as he finally made it to the table and picked up a cup of coffee to warm his hands on. He'd never really been much of an actual coffee drinker, to him the stuff always smelled better than it tasted, but given how cold he had gotten out there in such a short period of time, he decided he'd best drink it anyways whether he liked it or not.

"Well, all I can say is, you all did a fantastic job tonight! You're all a bunch of _amazing_ young actors and actresses! If any of you ever want to get into the show business, you come to me first!" Medda said brightly, ruffling the hair of the nearest newsboy lightheartedly. Everyone laughed and nodded in agreement. It was true that every one of them, from the professionals like Medda and her acting crew all the way down to poor scatterbrained Twinks had played their parts flawlessly, and while they were all very convincing it was truly left up to Pulitzer's conscience to decide if he would treat his hired help better than he had been or not.

"How we gonna know if it worked or not, Jack?" Mush questioned from his place by the door, still wrapped in the blankets he'd been wearing while posing as one of the bums in the alley.

"With a man like Mister Pulitzer, I'm sure you kids will have no trouble finding out as to whether your plan worked or not," Denton answered as he pulled his coat and gloves back on and moved for the door. Looking back to those gathered, he smiled some and gave a small nod. "Good night, everyone. I'll stop back by tomorrow afternoon. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Denton!" The newsies called as they all waved after their friend. Medda and her crew of actors waded through the throng of children and approached Jack. Holding her arms out for a hug, she pulled him in close and kissed the side of his head.

"We need to be getting on home, too, Kelly. You kids are all invited to come to the hall tomorrow evening for dinner if you'd like."

"T'anks Medda. I'll think about stoppin' by."

"Hey Race! C'mon ya bum. We gotta get on ovah ta Saint Xavier's fer Midnight Mass. I told Squints we'd come an' watch 'im be an alter boy tanight." Corky said, grabbing her ragged old flannel shirt to use in place of a decent coat. Racetrack groaned and his shoulders slumped as he complained about having to go back into the freezing cold after he'd just finished warming back up again. Grabbing his elbow and rolling her eyes, Corky wished everyone a good night before heading out the door with Race, followed by her brother Murdoch who made it a point to go to church at least every Christmas Eve.

"A'right kiddo's! Dat's yer cue ta march up da stairs an' inta yer bunks! Move it or loose it!" Wish instructed, swatting a few little ones gently on the bottom to get them moving up the stairs. Choruses of protest and groans filled the lobby as the remaining older newsies ushered the children up the stairs and into the drafty old bunkrooms. Bringing up the rear and carrying a sleeping little boy in his arms, Jack moved silently up the stairs and down the hall to the boys' bunkroom.

"'Ey Jacky-boy…Merry Christmas." A female voice called from the doorway to the girls' bunkroom. Turning his head and giving a small smirk, Jack nodded slightly.

"Merry Christmas, M. Now go ta sleep, will ya? Don't wanna have Santa skip ovah us just cuz yer bum arse is still awake," Jack called quietly back to the teen girl before disappearing into the dark bunkroom for the night.


	5. A New Day Dawns

"It's _CHRISTMAS!!_ Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!!" Twinks squealed happily as she bounced across every bottom bunk in an attempt to shortcut it through the room to the door. Ignoring the yelps and groans of pain from her fellow newsgirls as she clambered across stomachs, legs, arms, and faces, the excited seven-year-old sprang out the door and down the hall to pound on the boys' bunkroom.

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! IT'S CHRISTMAS!! JINGLE BELLS! JINGLE BELLS! JINGLE, JINGLE BELLS!!" She screamed through the door before bursting into song again and darting down the stairs. The sounds of newsboys falling from their various height bunks in surprise, followed by sharp curses, drifted into the hall before their door burst open and the heavy thud of a dozen or so young pairs of feet went running for the stairs.

In both bunkrooms, the older newsies were less enthused at the prospect of a new day dawning. Some of the bunks were already empty from different ones waking early to make it down to the Distribution Center to sell the morning edition to the fathers and bachelors who might be out and about that beautiful Christmas morn. The sun poured down onto the streets outside the Lodging House, bouncing its joyous light off the newly fallen flakes and making the world seem as if it were covered in diamonds.

Taking their time in getting up and dressed, the newsies of both genders gasped and hissed at the chill of their ragged clothes. Some mumbled that it wasn't worth freezing over and that they should be woken up when spring arrived again, while others just simply continued to snore. Wish and Corky did their best to prod the little ones along, telling them that the sooner they got dressed the sooner they'd warm up again. Down the hall in the boys' bunkroom, Jack and Skittery merely smacked the lazy ones upside the head and pushed them out of their bunks and onto the cold floor in order to get them moving.

From downstairs, a loud squeal of delight erupted followed by Twinks shrill voice calling for everyone to, "COME QUICK! SATAN'S BEEN 'ERE! SATAN'S BEEN 'ERE!!" which, of course, caused those old enough to catch what Twinks had said to stop and tilt their heads in minor confusion.

"If Satan's been 'ere…I don't t'ink I wanna go downstairs. I don' care how good those baked apples an cinnamon smell, I t'ink I'll stay right 'ere an' let Twinks deal with the fire an' brimstone 'erself." Corky said raising an eyebrow to Wish as the pair moved for the door behind the younger ones who were suddenly awake and dressed.

"Leave it to Twinks to mess up a great name like, Santa," Wish muttered as she shook her head and met up with the others in the hallway to file down the stairs and into the lobby below.

"'Ey…how much ya t'ink it would cost ta have Twinks put down? Ya know, have 'er put out of our misery?" An older newsie questioned from the back of the horde, sending a wave of laughter and giggles through the stairway while a few others actually tried to figure the answer out for themselves. As the mass of bodies moved down the stairway, the front of the group stopped dead in their tracks at the bottom, causing the others to fall into them and some to slip down the stairs a little at the suddenness of the stop.

"What's the hold up!? What's the big idea, stoppin' like dat!? Don't push me! Ey! Get yer hand off my bum! Whoa! Dat is NOT the railin' you got yer hand on, goil!" A mingle of protests and yelps emerged from the tumbled mass as those on the bottom step slowly moved and looked around the lobby in awe.

It couldn't possibly be the same lobby from the night before; someone must have come in during the night and moved their dingy old lobby on them while they slept. Ropes of evergreens intertwined with strings of blood red cranberries and large red, purple, and gold bows wrapped down the length of the stairs railing and hung from the doorways. A grand Christmas tree, complete with all the trimmings and stacks of small gifts under it, sat in the corner of the common room where their pathetic excuse for a tree had been sitting the night before. Two large baskets filled with breads, treats, and cookies sat on the ledger counter top while red and white candy-canes poked out of the top of the stockings just waiting to be tasted.

The little newsies smiled brightly as they ran for their stockings and poured the contents out onto the floor in front of them. Candy-canes and Jacks, small rubber balls, marbles, and yo-yo's all rolled across the floor, causing the kids to yell in delight as they scurried to chase them all down. Tucked safely inside of each stocking was also a slip of paper. Jolt looked at his slip before holding it up to Skittery.

"Ey! What's all dese fancy words 'ere mean? I can't read any o' dis."

"Uh, well, it says: 'This certificate is worth twent…,'" Skittery's eyes went wide as he nearly choked on his own words and blinked some before continuing, "'This certificate is worth twenty dollars! To be used at Anderson's Department store towards a new pair of shoes and a new coat. Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.'"

"_Twenty_ _dollars_!?" Jack and Race both quipped their eyes wide with disbelief as they moved through the group to get a better look at what Skittery held in his hands.

"That's what it says!" Skittery said, showing those around him the slip of paper to confirm that's what it really said. In the blink of an eye, a riot broke out in front of the ledger counter as everyone scrambled for their stockings, checking to see if they too received such an amazing gift. Once they were satisfied that they had each gotten a gift certificate, the younger kids ran for the tree to see what kinds of goodies awaited them there.

"'Ey…you don't t'ink any of this could be from Pulitzer, do ya?" Race asked to Jack as they stood and watched the little ones tear into packages of paper, pencils, paints, and crayons. Jack thought silently for a moment as he looked to where Squints and Murdoch were oohing over stacks of books, at least a dozen or more grade school readers for the kids followed by a dozen or so more advanced books by Jules Vern, Mark Twain, and other contemporary authors for the older teens. From a corner, Corky, Wish, Kidah, and Tellie all whooped with delight at the sight of brand new thick blankets—enough to give each boarder one to help keep warm at night. A small smile crept onto Jack's face as he turned to look at Race.

"Race, don't'cha know by now that Santa Claus brings all the presents?" He asked half seriously before turning and heading for the tree to see what else was hidden below its branches.

* * *

The bright morning sun shown down into the office of Mr. Joseph Pulitzer, illuminating everything it touched. The oak panel walls of the hallway hung bare and desolate once again, the decorations stripped from them and placed instead inside the Dune Street Lodging House. The tree that once sat in the lobby of the grand building had also been moved to a place far more deserving of at least a few nice things at Christmas. A checkbook ledger sat open on Joseph's desk; an amount (well over any amount the newsies could ever dream of) written down on it that to him was nothing more than chump-change.

Lying on one of the red leather couches in his office, Joseph grumbled and groaned softly as he began to wake up. His whole body ached from sleeping on the cramped couch. Still dressed in his fine suite from the day before, he sat up and very carefully stretched his arms, legs, and neck. In a way he was almost jealous of the newsies and their youth. He almost wished he could be a child or teen again, able to sleep anywhere and not wake up with a stiff and sore body. As he looked at his gold chained pocket watch, Pulitzer smiled slightly to himself. The newsies should have woken up and seen their surprise by then. Standing and moving for the window, Joseph smiled down at the pristine city below. Christmas was a wonderful and magical time of the year for children, a time when anything was possible if you just believed, and now, even cold hearted Joseph Pulitzer had to agree.


End file.
